Mechazilla’s Catch
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
It was a first, in Texas; Mechazilla’s chopsticks caught
the first-stage, superheavy rocket at the launch pad’s spot,
the Starship, at more than one-twenty meters tall,
its booster with a seventy-four mega-newton haul.
It was a day for th’ engineering history parade,
the booster in the tower’s grasp to where it was conveyed.
SpaceX said engineers have spent years prepping for the catch,
o, labouring to maximize their chances for success,
ensuring thousands of requir’d criteria were met,
both on the tower and the vehicle, before th’ attempt,
the people cheering crazily, as they observed it land,
into the launch pad’s arms, the rocket safely in its hands.
Within This Starry, Wheeling, Reeling Vertigo
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
How often do we slam our heads against a wall
of total acrimony and indifference,
and keep on doing it again against it all,
the long while, wildly striving for deliverance?
It is pathetic how we go against such odds
and reach perfection’s peak not ever, never once,
and come to realize that realm is only God’s,
and yet still press on, over, over, over, o!
The bounding, pounding, grounding of eight billion bod’s:
Where is it that we think that all of us will go
upon this burning, ever turning, giant ball
within this starry, wheeling, reeling vertigo?
Mr. I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of space.
~~~
Newsreel:
The fiberglass, translucent roof of Tropicana Field
was blown off by the hurricane to which it had to yield.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
On the tennis court,
a sailing boat is sitting:
Hurricane Milton.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Amid Earth’s loud wars,
the leaves change colours and fall—
Nihon Kidankyo.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of NewMillennial haiku. Nihon Kidankyo, survivors of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, advocating for a nuclear free world, received the 2024 Nobel peace Prize.
~~~
Newsreel:
The Nobel Prize for Lit’rature was given to Han Kang
for her poetic p(r)ose, books like“The Vegetarian.”
~~~
Yet, Here He Was Again
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into the lotus pose; he longed to be at peace.
He was a fool…to think that violence would ever cease.
Yet, here he was again, his head and spine uplifted high,
his hips stretched out, his back aloft, he wished that he could fly.
But he would try to reach nirvana meditating on…
sweet peace, wherein he’d be refreshed by resting for a span.
Just contemplating on his situation brought him balm;
the best he could hope for was but a momentary calm.
He longed to have the peace that passes understanding, yes;
and so he hung out on that mat to reach a blessed bliss.
And though, he was no more than just a fool upon his plat,
there was a purity he felt, and he was good with that.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation.
~~~
Newsreel:
More than one-hundred-forty died when a gas tanker truck
turned over, in Nigeria—flames rising from the ruck.
~~~
Fighting Battles Long Ago Complete
by War di Belecuse
I am still fighting battles long ago complete
and skirmishes my body hasn’t yet resolved.
I argue with myself, where should have been my feet
to stand against the fo(rc)e with which I was involved?
How could I have done better and been much more prepared?
What strategies and tactics could have been improved?
What better moves might I have used? Where had I erred
to change the outcome? Second guessing never stops.
What stronger nerve and greater grit might I have bared?
What other checks might I have made, what turns and drops?
It seems there’s always something more to do to meet
one’s enemies’ opposing arms and battle props.
Stuck in the Light
by War di Belecuse
He was dressed all in camo from his head down to his feet,
tan baseball cap, beige belt, beside companions on his team.
They had advanced out to the edge of some lush, bushy wood.
They paused beside their off-road truck. What were their chances—good?
The quartet traipsed along that forest, far from field or farm,
yet wondered how well they would be avoiding hurt and harm.
Much better would it be, if they’d escape without harsh frisks,
yet even in the best of circumstances there were risks.
There were such wild looks within their eyes—both fight and fright.
For safety, it was vital they not be stuck in the light.
War di Belecuse is a poet of confliction.
~~~
Divine Desires
by Aedile Cwerbus
What is the poet’s appeal to Apollo?
What does he pray for while pouring the wine?
For the rich harvests of fertile Sardinia?
No, nor for herds of delightful Calabria.
He does not desire white ivory, gold,
coming from sunlit, bright Indian mines,
preferring the fields near Liris’s flow,
nibbled and silently calm as it rolls.
Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of Ancient Rome. Horace (65 BC – 8 BC) was a poet of Ancient Rome.
~~~
Newsreel:
And now it seems another new conspiracy is bunked,
and fluoridated water is more toxic than was thunk.
~~~
A Chance t’ Invigourate
Cu Ebide Aswerl
He kicked back in his office seat, his legs upon his desk,
so casual and as you are, an airy arabesque.
He played a game of solitaire, a pause from typing work.
He knew that he could git to it—completion would occur.
The cards went round about…and back,,,and forth…their varied ways.
He sucked his stomach in, as he observed their rand displays.
He kept score as he went along, how much he won or lost,
and wondered to himself what th’ opportunity cost was.
And yet, the purpose of relaxing was to motivate
to do what had to be done with a chance t’ invigourate.
Cu Ebide Aswerl is a poet of leisure.
~~~
A Song of Half a Century Ago
by Blue Rawci Swede
While driving in his auto, he began to sing a song,
“Hooked on a Feeling”, he had heard from watching the film “Strul”.
As he was driving down the highway, it popped in his head,
“high on believing you’re in love with me” upon his tongue.
Blue Rawci Swede is a poet of Swedish rock and roll. Mark James (1940-2024) was a composer of popular tunes.
~~~
The Race Had Started
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
The race began. He started panting on his marathon.
From top to bottom, he was activated in the Dawn.
His shadow lengthened as he ran upon his westward track,
in tan trunks, black shoes, black socks, and a soft black cap turned back.
O, yes, he was enroute to places he had never been;
but such was life, and he was ready to do this again.
Left-right, left-right, he pounded pavement, down each brand new
street;
it was a feat his feet would have to work on to complete.
His legs moved forth, northwest, along the designated course.
The Sun was at his back, he couldn’t help but fe-el sore.
Yet he ran on and on—there was no other thing to do.
The race had started, he’d departed, he must make it through.
His Morning Exercises
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
It was time for his morning exercises once again.
First off, he did some stretches, top to bottom, sunlit skin.
Then started on his back-and-forths to bring deep-breathing on,
his abs and shoulders all in motion, quivering at dawn.
Next came his round-a-bouts, for he was working on his core,
his uniform was tan, his feet securely on the floor.
Next came his side-to-side up-lifts, flab on his abs and ass;
his goal was to fight for and through to greater muscle mass.
Then came his grab-the-ankles, bending down to touch his toes;
at times, he felt like as a blob when he was doing those,
there hanging out, blood flushing to the pallor of his face;
he was so happy when he was upright again and base.
And finally he sat down on a chair or mattress spread
to catch his breath, strength, angst and length, a chance to pause and
rest,
adapting to the pressing stress, alleviating care,
to activate recovery for muscles to repair.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of exercising.
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